The Big Book of Orgasms

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The Big Book of Orgasms Page 19

by Rachel Kramer Bussel


  I know for some people kink is all about being a brat, defying their master and getting “punished,” but even though I can be annoying, I love being praised and following commands. Knowing that whatever action Clyde tells me to do is one he’s picked out just for me, makes me willing to do pretty much anything for him. He’s tested me on more than one occasion, ordering me to enter a banana-cream-pie-eating contest so he could see me smeared in sticky white cream—like sploshing in public—to going panty- and bra-less through the TSA security check.

  So I knew whatever he was going to do was ultimately going to get me off, whether by dint of simply following his lead, or because he was going to get me so worked up I’d have no choice but to come. I was sure he had my best interests at heart, even if he did want to teach me a lesson about making do with what we have. I set out the wrist and ankle cuffs, then took off all my clothes and neatly folded them, placing them on the chair in the corner. My man is a stickler for neatness, and tossing my panties on the floor or even leaving a hair tie out of place is enough to get me taken across his knee—not that I really mind.

  I sank into the luxurious softness of our bed, our most prized possession, grateful he hadn’t taken out our blindfold. We scrimped and saved so much to be able to afford this adjustable bed that I often don’t want to leave. As I lay on my back against our extremely soft sheets, I smiled to myself. Clyde hadn’t tied me up in a while—we tend to save bondage for special occasions—and I could practically feel the restraints working their magic. “Very good, Lara,” he said as he entered the room. Simply hearing his voice made me wet. “Hands above your head.” I heard something rattle, but was too distracted by the sensation of the fur-lined cuffs clamping around my wrists to ponder it further. Soon I was tethered to the headboard, my legs spread and cuffed to the bottom of the bed. “Now you’re right where I want you. I’m going to cool you off but good,” I heard as he stripped off his clothes.

  I didn’t dare ask, “With your cock?” I shivered with anticipation, wishing for a moment I could run my fingers over my hardened nipples. I yelped as I felt an extremely cold droplet of water drip onto my neck, followed by more along my chest, before he started rubbing a slippery ice cube against one of my nipples. “Cold enough for you, princess?” he asked. I whimpered as he ran the cube over my erect nub, while pinching my other nipple with chilled fingers.

  “Yes, it’s amazing,” I said, straining upward for more contact.

  “Open that sweet mouth,” he ordered, and as soon as I did, an ice cube was placed on my tongue. I had to suck on it to make sure it didn’t slip down my throat. The heat of my mouth not only helped melt the ice, causing a trickle of welcome water down my throat, but ensured it didn’t give me freezer burn. Soon it felt like the ice was everywhere, slipping and sliding along my formerly hot skin. Yet when Clyde took his cock and rubbed it against the slick, cool wetness between my legs, I was aware that not everything about our encounter was cold. His hardness was hot, in both senses of the word, and the contrast made me contort as much as I could. I bit into the ice, the crunch loud as he entered me.

  At first, he didn’t press his body down against me. No, he gave me just his cock—his amazingly hard, perfect cock, pushing it in and out, not so much fucking me as teasing me with its length, with its promise. He knew I wanted it the way I always want it—hard and deep. I couldn’t do much more than squeeze him with each pass; I knew well enough that begging would simply draw out my frustration. Clyde loves to tease me, but he had already done enough of that.

  “Cold enough for you now, Lara?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I hissed, and he granted me a particularly hard thrust, but just when I started to thrust back, he pulled out.

  “Well, it’s not cold enough for me, yet,” he said, and soon he was tracing my sleek lower lips with the ice, making me squirm even more. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to get away from his fingers holding what felt like two cubes, or wanted to beckon him to make me truly drip. I also knew it didn’t matter; he would do whatever he wanted to do. Apparently, what my man wanted to do was press the ice cubes inside my pussy. I whimpered, then clenched around his invading fingers as the ice tickled me with its chill. “After you make those melt, you can have my cock in your pussy. Unless I come first,” he added, just when I started to obey him.

  He straddled me so his dick was right above my breasts, and began beating his cock. Being able to see him but not touch him made me convulse. “Where do you want my come, Lara? In that pretty mouth of yours, or on your tits…or in your pussy?” he asked unfairly, since I wanted it everywhere. He pinched one nipple and beat his dick and soon there was no choice, only him spurting all over me.

  Clyde made up for it, though, by shoving four cubes into my pussy, and holding them there with his fingers while he sucked my clit until I screamed and almost pushed him off the bed with the force of my orgasm. He kept going until the cubes were all melted, then wrapped me in his arms. “No more complaints about the weather, right?” I simply smiled. If this was my reward for complaining, that wasn’t a promise I could make.

  SEEING IS BELIEVING

  Heidi Champa

  I’m telling you, it’s him.”

  “And I’m telling you that there is no way it’s him.”

  “Fine, I’ll just send you the link to the video and you can decide for yourself.”

  “Great. Then you can pay me the fifty bucks you owe me and we’ll have a good laugh about what an idiot you are, Tom.”

  “Afraid not, my friend. If that isn’t your roommate in that video, then I’ll give you fifty bucks and I’ll literally kiss your ass. But I’m right.”

  Just then, a new email was delivered to my inbox. From Tom.

  “Happy viewing, Joe. Tell me what you think of Jake’s performance when you’re done watching. Personally, I think he’s a natural. It’s really hot.”

  “You watched the whole thing?”

  “Of course. And I’ll bet you an extra fifty bucks you do, too.”

  My phone beeped as the line cut off. I moved my cursor to the email icon, but I hesitated to double click. I knew in my head that Tom had to be wrong. It had to be someone who looked like Jake, but I had to concede there was a possibility that my roommate would actually be in the video. I sat at my computer, having a debate with myself. On the one hand, I was dying to prove Tom wrong. On the other, if it was true, things might become very awkward between Jake and me. In the end, curiosity won out and I clicked open the email. The video link was right there, highlighted in green.

  Before I could think better of it, I clicked on the link and up popped a new window with the video. At first, when the video started, there was no picture, just muffled sounds. Suddenly, the picture clicked to life, and there he was. Jake. Sitting on the end of a bed with his hard cock in his hand and an adorable smile on his face. Damn. Tom was right. I didn’t have time to worry about that as a voice from off camera piped up.

  “Hey, man. You ready to suck my cock?”

  Jake nodded, licking his lips as the camera zoomed in on his gorgeous face.

  “Hell, yeah. Get over here.”

  The unsteady camera work finally adjusted just in time for a thick cock to come into view, right in front of Jake’s mouth. He winked at the camera before closing his eyes and wrapping his lips around the head, slowly taking the whole thing into his mouth. Fuck, he looked good. My own cock stirred in my shorts as I watched Jake go to town on the cameraman’s dick, his muffled moans reminding me of the time I’d heard him jerking off in the bathroom last month.

  Jake pulled back and the camera guy took the opportunity to rub and slap his cock against Jake’s face. He looked like he was loving it. I knew I was. Tom had been right about that, too. Pulling my shorts down my legs, I took myself in hand, stroking in time to Jake’s bobbing head. The cameraman wrapped his free hand around Jake’s neck and started fucking his mouth faster, but my roommate didn’t seem to mind at all. I leaned back in my desk chair,
trying to get more comfortable. Just then, the camera guy spoke again.

  “Look at me.”

  Jake did as he was told, peering up into the lens with those big, brown eyes of his, tears brimming at the corners.

  “That’s it. God, you look so hot sucking my dick.”

  He really did. The other guy wasn’t wrong about that. The cameraman moved his hand up into Jake’s hair, grabbing a healthy handful and pushing himself even deeper into his throat. I could hear Jake slurping and gagging, which sent a jolt through my whole body. Jake’s eyes fluttered closed again, his face flushing from his exertion. The guy off camera was groaning like crazy, the picture once again shaky as he was clearly having trouble keeping still. My own cock was aching by this point, the whole situation overwhelming my senses. I started to jerk myself harder, my toes curling into the soft pile of my carpet to keep my chair from rolling away from the desk. The voice behind the camera sounded just as unsteady as the shot was.

  “Fuck, man. I’m gonna come.”

  Just like in a regular porn movie, he pulled out of Jake’s mouth suddenly. He gasped for air as the hand that was twined in brown locks now jerked the disembodied cock on the screen. I watched with my mouth open as the cameraman came on Jake, coating his cheeks and lips with spunk. The cameraman then proceeded to run the head of his cock through it, until he’d smeared himself all over the rest of Jake’s face. When he opened his eyes and smiled, my balls tightened.

  “Fuck, you taste so good.”

  By this point, Jake wasn’t talking to the camera guy, he was talking to me. When my fist reached the head of my cock, I started to come, my whole body wracked with pleasure my roommate had caused. The power of my orgasm shocked me, the ecstasy far beyond anything I’d experienced in a long time. When my eyes could focus again, I noticed the video had ended.

  I’d just finished cleaning myself up when I heard the front door open and slam shut. Jake walked by my room just as I managed to close the browser window that contained his video. When he came back, he stopped at my door and looked at me.

  “You okay, man? You look a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I tried to keep my gaze focused on his eyes, but when I looked at him, I could still see the last scene of the video and Jake’s face covered in come. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind, but it wasn’t working.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “No reason.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  After he walked away, I called Tom. When he picked up, I didn’t even get a word out before he spoke.

  “I’ll take my hundred dollars in twenties, by the way, Joe.”

  THE VELOCITY OF ROACHES

  Michael A. Gonzales

  It had been years since forty-year-old comic-book artist DeCarlo attended a convention. Unlike his fame whore contemporaries relishing the roar of prepubescent enthusiasts, DeCarlo’s idea of a good day had nothing to do with a roomful of rabid fanboys. Dwelling upstate in a renovated barn, he usually spent Saturday afternoons lounging in his studio, smoking weed and painting.

  Yet with the release of his latest graphic novel Roach, an angst-ridden book DeCarlo wrote and drew about a young woman from the Lower East Side who becomes a superhero, the marketing folks at Upstart Publishing insisted he attend a few geek gatherings. Wearing black jeans and a button-down shirt, DeCarlo stood inside the ballroom doorway where the chatter sounded like a million cicadas mating.

  Shepherded by Upstart’s overzealous promo man Brad Brod, he strolled to the artist’s area and sat behind a table where copies of Roach were stacked. “There are more women at this convention than when I was a kid,” DeCarlo noticed. “Used to be only miserable mothers and girlfriends, but some of these women actually look happy.”

  “Yes, the comic book chickies are out in full force,” Brod replied, leering at a group of Asian women dressed as their favorite manga characters. Brod excitingly stared at the costumed cuties, not caring if they were heroes or villains.

  “I’ve seen animals more civilized than you,” DeCarlo mumbled.

  “Yeah, but do they get as much pussy as me?” Brad laughed. “Maybe if you got a lil’ trim, you might be less depressing.”

  Since the sudden death of his girlfriend the year before, DeCarlo hadn’t had much contact with women. “Lil’ Trim?” DeCarlo asked. “Who is that, a new rapper?”

  “The New York Times might’ve compared you to Kafka, but you’re really more like Charlie Brown. Still existentialist, but good grief. It’s time to forget about the celibacy and come a little.”

  Back when DeCarlo was a boy, he too went to conventions to buy back issues and show off his promising portfolio samples to the pros. That was in the late 1970s, when most of the artists were bored guys who believed illustrating comics was just another job, comparable to fixing refrigerators.

  In most cases, the older artists didn’t care about their work being returned or the companies buying all rights to their billion-dollar supermen for a few coins. Nevertheless, the new school of comic-book authors thought of themselves as serious, savvy, smart and special. Following in the stylistic path of illustrator and art teacher Barron Storey, they combined hallucinatory fine art techniques with their sequential skills and became rock stars with India ink instead of guitars.

  Roach told the tale of a young biracial sexy nerd named Margo Roach. An electronic musician creating “incest symphonies” with old Yamaha synthesizers, a Buchla and a Moog, she lived in the damp basement at 222 Bowery. One night, while working on music dressed in Elvis Costello glasses, a black T-shirt, black skirt and black Doc Martens, she didn’t notice a plump cockroach crawling across the filthy floor. Contaminated by radioactive bug-powder dust, the insect crept up a thick wire and bit the oblivious Margo on the hand.

  Minutes later, the bug died and Margo transformed into a superhero. Possessing powers beyond the average mortal, she had a stylish brown cowl with long antennae and a matching formfitting costume. Utilizing her last name, she adopted the moniker “the Roach.” Fighting crime in Alphabet City, she kicked crack dealers to the curb, scared housing-project predators and punished slimy slumlords. “It’ll take more than that to squash the Roach,” was her catchphrase when capturing downtown desperados.

  When not being a superhero, Margo lived a bohemian lifestyle, tending bar at an Avenue B punk club, making music in the basement, talking to her arty friends, digesting good drugs and dealing with bad boyfriends. What began as DeCarlo’s serious satire of female superheroes, with their massive breasts and sexist costumes, became a sensation praised by leading feminists, hipster writers, four-color critics and the 1999 Rolling Stone Hot List.

  “For those who see women as the cockroaches of society, Roach will cause a metamorphosis of the mind,” Time magazine proclaimed. Sitting at the convention table, DeCarlo signed books, drew sketches for fans and saw more than his share of young women clad in cockroach costumes. Big broads, wiry women and acne-faced adolescents stopped by to meet the creator of their inspiration.

  “It’ll take more than that to squash the Roach,” they playfully chanted as they slid him books to sign. Standing up a few hours later, DeCarlo stretched.

  “My medicine wore off,” he told Brod. “I’m going up to the room to smoke a joint.” One of the benefits of being a special guest of the convention was the fortieth-floor suite they gifted him. “Just be back in an hour,” Brod reminded him. “You’re doing a panel discussion with Howard Chaykin at six thirty.”

  Surprised by the emptiness of the carpeted corridor, DeCarlo walked to the elevator banks. Stepping into the steel box, he was surrounded by the sound of strange electronic music streaming from the ceiling speaker. Listening closely, he was struck by the music’s similarities, at least in his imagination, to the Roach’s incest symphonies.

  As the cascading doors slowly closed, a black Doc Marten boot slid between them and a costumed figure silently stepped inside. Even with the cockr
oach cowl covering half of her cinnamon-hued face, DeCarlo knew the shapely stranger was stunning. Standing a few feet away, a wicked grin crept across her full lips. The stranger’s intoxicating smell made him dizzy as both the elevator and his cock began to rise. Slowly gyrating to the weird music, the young woman looked to be six feet tall. Raising her shoulders as though they were wings, she moved closer, touching DeCarlo’s face lightly with her antennae.

  “Please, don’t turn on the light,” the Roach muttered as they left the elevator, he opened the door, and she scurried into the suite. As though shedding her skin, she slowly slid out of her costume in the foyer. Taking DeCarlo’s hand, she guided him through the darkness and into the bedroom.

  Leaving on the cowl, she walked softly across the floor, her footsteps confident as a ballerina. For the next hour, the passion between the Roach and DeCarlo was smoldering. One moment there was pure tenderness as he licked her honeyed clit and the next minute she was slapping his ass harshly. Groaning loudly, he mounted her from the side as the heat of her hairy pussy made him sweat.

  In over twenty years of fucking, he had never been able to make love to a woman for longer than seventeen minutes, but almost an hour later, it was as though their genitals were linked. Turning over, the masked mulatto jumped on top and rode his cock as DeCarlo pumped furiously.

  Feeling a tingling at the base of his balls, a lustful sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time, DeCarlo erupted into her sticky snatch as the costumed crusader screamed loudly. Exhausted, she tumbled off his still stiff dick and lay silent for a few minutes. “You squashed the Roach,” the heroine murmured. Laughing softly, she rolled over on her back.

  AFTER THE FUNERAL

  Jeanette Grey

 

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